


Steady

by non_tiembo_mala



Series: Tumblr Drabbles, Ficlets, and Brother Moments ♥ [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Sleepy Cuddles, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7218463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_tiembo_mala/pseuds/non_tiembo_mala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has an attack. Dean works him through it.</p><p>Set somewhere in S11 because I can't stop thinking about strong, beautiful Sammy being all fucked up because of friggin' Lucifer. </p><p>Cross posted from tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steady

**Author's Note:**

> I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't sleep so surprise! Anxiety drabble.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

Sam tosses and turns. He’s been on the edge of consciousness for what feels like forever in his just-enough-steeped-in-sleep addled brain, skirting through dreams that feel just this side of too real, wanting to wake up but not sure if he’s already there.

He finally shakes awake, mind going blank as the dream disappears and he’s hot - too hot - sweating, and his legs are tangled up in a twisted sheet and his brother’s legs. He pants as he lies there, eyes wide and blinking at the ceiling, and he very carefully tugs the blanket away and eases his foot out from between Dean’s ankles. 

He wants to get up, pace, walk the hallways, anything to get rid of the nervous, twitching energy that’s simmering under his skin, but he knows Dean will feel him get up. He tries to lie still and calm his breathing but it’s not slowing down. His chest is heaving and he hates this so much; not sleeping, nightmares he’s glad he can’t always remember but the feelings linger all the same - pain, doubt, near-crippling fear - and it all makes him panic, even here, in the safety of the bunker and his brother’s - their - bed.

He picks a spot on the ceiling and stares, tries counting to a hundred in Latin just to give his body a break, his hands clenching in fists on his chest and his eyes wet at the corners, burning.

—

Dean feels wakefulness vaguely and then suddenly all at once. Something is wrong.

He isn’t touching Sam. He can feel the weight and heat of his brother’s body still dipping the other side of the bed but nowhere are they skin to skin. And- Sam’s breathing. It’s fast and harsh, Dean can feel that the rhythm is off. His eyes fly open.

He’s on his side looking at Sam who is lying on his back, his profile highlighted by the dim light in the hallway coming in from under the door. His mouth is open around his panting, his chest is rising and falling rapidly and he’s white-knuckling the sheets. The light catches in something shiny at the corner of his brother’s eye.

“Sam- Sammy, hey. Baby, it’s okay,” Dean whispers and his voice is rough with sleep but gentle and firm as he slides closer, reaching an arm over Sam’s waist to pull him in.

“De-Dean-” Sam gasps around shortened breaths. “I didn’t- didn’t mean- to wake you- so- sorry-”

“Hey now, shh,” Dean coos. Sam is right on the edge, he can tell. A full blown attack is hovering in the shadows, ready to pounce, but Dean’s not going to let it take him. “Shh, Sammy, just breathe, baby. Don’t worry about me, Bigfoot.” 

He laughs lightly as he cozies up to Sam’s side, his head propped up but one arm under it while the other smooths up and down Sam’s side, reassuring. He slips one leg over and between Sam’s, leaning into his brother’s side so their chests are together.

Sam doesn’t look at him right away. Dean knows he’s ashamed; he always tries to hide it, that this happens. The panic, the anxiety - he’s got some damn complex like it makes him less, like Dean doesn’t love him enough for this, too, like he hasn’t been through so much in his life that Dean is in constant awe of him, how strong he is, how he always gets by. Maybe as a young man, Dean might’ve been more stupid dealing with this kind of thing (by not dealing with it, he supposes, looking back) but now he knows better; he loves better. He’s told Sam it’s okay, always does, always will. Until Sam believes it, too.

Sam blinks up at the ceiling instead, looking past him, his lashes thick and dark with tears, and he’s still panting, tongue darting out to wet his drying lips.

“Sammy, c’mon. Let’s do this together, okay? Together. We got this.” He moves his free hand up and laces his fingers in Sam’s hand, forcing it flat so he’s pressing Sam’s palm down over his heart.

“Dean-” Sam starts, choking out his name, and it sounds so fucking anguished that Dean’s heart stutters, tight and painful because his brother is hurting so much. He swallows thickly and smiles anyway, putting on his brave face for his little brother. 

“Nuh uh, kiddo. Don’t argue with me, baby. I’m older, I know better. Them’s the rules, Sammy. In and out, okay? Listen. Feel me. Feel me breathe, Sam.”

He breathes in and out deliberately, letting the air be loud as it moves, long counts - four in, four hold, four out - to slow Sam’s thundering heart.

At first, Sam’s head thrashes a little on his pillow as he fights it. His fingers squeeze Dean’s against his chest so tight it hurts, so desperate Dean feels them as fiercely there as he does behind his ribs; his heart has always been in Sam’s hands. Dean gets closer, his face mere inches from his brother’s, so close he can smell sweat he sees glistening on Sam’s skin. Sam’s breathing is still erratic and he’s wincing; Dean knows from the times before that his chest is probably tight, pain radiating across it as a sharp, physical manifestation of the trauma trying to take hold front and centre in his brother’s brain.

“You got this, Sammy,” Dean keeps cooing, leaning in further to edge his nose between Sam’s and his cheek. He places his lips there briefly and tastes the echo of salt on them afterwards. “ _Breathe_.”

Dean keeps breathing nice and slow, tactical breathing like they’ve both always known to do, like John always taught them - learned when he was in ‘Nam - but instead of for steady hands behind a barrel or clarity in the field, it’s here, on a much more personal, intimate battlefront. Dean has always been a soldier and this is war he’ll always, _always_ fight.

For Sam, he will always win.

After what feels like a lifetime, Dean realizes the death grip on his hand has eased and Sam’s breathing is shaky as hell but in sync with his. He mentally does a _whoop_ and fist pump. 

“That’s it, baby. So good. Look at you, huh?” Dean laughs quietly, and internally curses because it comes out shakier than he meant it to. Seeing Sam like this always rattles him.

He keeps his head up but uses his hand to wipe the corner of Sam’s eye with his thumb, then leans in to kiss the corner of Sam’s mouth. When he looks at Sam again, he feels a bit like he’s being split in two. 

Sam’s got his breathing back and his heart is still hammering - Dean can feel it through both their hands - but it’s slower, too. He sniffles and his bottom lip is quivering and _fuck_ \- muscle, stubble and thirty-three be damned, he looks like Dean’s lanky, baby-faced kid brother again.

“’M so sorry, Dee…” He breathes out, raspy and sad. Dean tracks the bobbing movement of his throat as he swallows, licking his lips and trying to get some moisture back in his mouth.

Dean chuckles again softly, keeping it light.

“What’d I tell you about apologizing? Never, Sam. Okay? Not for this. Not ever. Or else… I’ll start ironing your shirts with beer again.”

Sam snorts at that, a small laugh but Dean feels the rumble of it like a victory march and breathes easier for it.

“Now,” he continues, letting his head down and burrowing into the crook of Sam’s shoulder. “It’s late as fuck and I’m an old man, Sammy. Back to sleep.”

He feels Sam sigh and his brother’s body is finally soft and heavy next to him, all the tension bleeding away. 

“Definitely more sleep.” Sam agrees quietly, settling in and still holding their hands together on his chest.

They’re both quiet for a moment but Dean can practically hear Sam thinking in the silence. He waits him out.

“Thanks, Dean.”

Dean hums a little and kisses at Sam’s shoulder.

“I love you, bitch.” He mumbles it against Sam’s skin. It’s the easy answer but it’s true. And it always make Sam’s mouth quirk up in the sweet little half-smile Dean doesn’t even have to look at to see, which is always a win in his books.

“Love you, too, jerk.” 

Dean can hear the desired shape of his brother’s mouth in his reply and he smiles lazily into Sam’s arm. He holds on until the rise and fall of Sam’s chest under their hands is slow and steady with easy sleep, then he lets himself drift off, too. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for your time, loves ❤


End file.
